Bedtime Stories
by Myrime
Summary: She could have said: "I'm no child anymore, Daddy." She had scars to show, the evidence of knowing death. But it didn't matter. He couldn't save her.


Bedtime Stories

* * *

"_Mother looked at me and my scars  
Disgusted,  
And she told me to go,  
And told me I shouldn't be home."  
_(Maps - 1megen1, DeviantArt)

* * *

Coming home was meant to be easy. Hermione had looked forward to it, to spending time with her parents and having a room all to herself. But now, sitting in the kitchen of her childhood home, which felt so different, now that she had lived in a whole new world, she was weary.

At first she tried to settle back into that familiar routine that had been her life before magic: spending too much time in the local library; preparing dinner with her mother while discussing the news with her father.

She almost felt normal again – were it not for the things she couldn't tell.

But she smiled and laughed and talked about that whole new world of knowledge she couldn't wait to explore, of magic and Hogwarts and all the wonders in between.

And when they met with the extended family she spun tales for her grandparents and played with her cousins like every other child, shaking her head when little David ran off, disappointed when she wasn't scared by one prank or another – she couldn't even pretend to be.

She wasn't afraid of trivial things anymore. How could she, after facing a fully grown mountain troll swinging his club at her to smash her head? After seeing a friend struck down by a giant chess piece and another rushing off to fight the man who had killed his parents?

But she couldn't tell that anyone, could she? So she was always careful to stick to the truth as much as possible, lest she gave her parents a reason to reconsider their decision to let their only daughter go somewhere they could never follow.

She told about schoolwork and small adventures, no word about three-headed dogs and hidden artefacts, loose trolls and illegal dragons.

"It's simply magical," Hermione smiled. "The castle, the books, Harry and Ron."

(The teacher who tried to kill us because we got in his way.)

"I can't wait to go back!"

* * *

After second year, Hermione buried herself in work, trying to keep the thoughts from spinning in her head. Being petrified all this time had certainly changed things.

Not because she could have died (thought it had been so very close), but because of how utterly helpless she had been, how blind not to connect the obvious clues, how oblivious of Ginny's problems.

Of course her parents had been informed about the petrification. They had been furious, worried, but they never realized just how close they had come to losing her. (No basilisk was mentioned, no twelve year old boy going against a giant, venomous snake with nothing but a battered hat and a borrowed sword, no spirit of a not-so-dead Dark Lord.)

But even that didn't scare her off. She just vowed to learn more, to be prepared for whatever it was fate would throw at them next.

(She didn't even really listen to McGonagall explaining the risk of using a time-turner. It was a tool to help her meet the things to come. And she already was older than her years. What difference made some more time added?)

* * *

Her parents had been anxious to let her go back for her third year, with that mass murderer on the loose. But where could she be safer than in an ancient castle full of wizards and wards to keep him out?

She never told them, that she had met the man behind the myth. And when she started to read all those law books, they didn't wonder, she always obsessed about one thing or another, after all.

And even if they had asked, what could she have said? That she had broken several laws that year? That she kept the secret of the werewolf teaching defence? That she manipulated time itself to free two convicts sentenced to death? That she wished they had let Sirius kill Peter because then it would be so much easier to prove his innocence?

And when she woke that first full moon from a nightmare, her mother found her in the kitchen, asking jokingly: "Did you hear some gruesome stories about werewolves at school or why can't you look at the full moon anymore?"

Hermione could have hardly said that her heart went out to her teacher who would this very night have company during his transformation, after twelve years of lonely desolation. And that she hoped that wolf and dog would somehow stumble over a particularly treacherous rat.

Instead she smiled back, reassuringly. "No. I'm just nervous about the upcoming year. OWLs are coming closer." _And I wonder what will try to kill us next year._

She hugged her mum like the normal fourteen year old girl she should have been.

But she wasn't, and she wondered what her parents would do, when they finally found out.

* * *

She had nothing to say about her fourth year, even if she could have been open with her parents.

It had finally happened: Someone had died. Voldemort was back. A war was coming, and she was in the thick of it.

When the invitation came to spend the rest of the holidays at Grimmauld Place, she didn't hesitate, no matter how disappointed her parents were that she'd leave so soon.

She was tired of pretending, of forcing smiles when she was all but numb inside.

She just couldn't find the strength to play child when she knew her world was falling apart.

(Also, some part was deeply hurt by the fact, that her parents couldn't _see_ that the life she painted for them was all wrong, that their picture of _her _was all wrong.)

* * *

Fifth year killed the last bits of the child she had once been. Knowing about the coming war was one thing, being in her first battle quite another (and she didn't doubt a lot more were yet to come.)

She couldn't wait to leave again, to leave her parents behind and her childhood home. It cost so much energy to lie to them, but telling the truth was even less an option than ever before.

Founding a secret army. Training for battle. Working against teachers. Rushing off on a rescue mission the not only got her best friend's godfather killed (remember the escaped murderer?) but left all of them injured.

She had scars to show, evidence of how close she had come to death – once again.

If they ever heard even the faintest whisper of any of that, they wouldn't let her go back. And that just wasn't an option. Harry needed her, now more than ever, more than her parents could ever need her.

She loved them, fiercely, but they could never understand. So she didn't really had to chose. Her path was clear.

* * *

Hermione knew that, the summer after sixth year, was the last time she'd ever come home. Time was running out and she was already so weary. Nightmares haunted her, of Death Eaters storming Hogwarts, of students picking up arms to fight for their lives, of Dumbledore lying broken at the foot of the Astronomy tower.

She didn't study those last weeks at home and she nearly laughed when her father asked her if something was wrong. Was there anything that _wasn't_?

_I'm scared, Daddy,_ she might have said, clinging onto him, as if he could save her. _I'm scared that I'll fail and get them killed, Harry and Ron. I'm scared that we won't win this war. I'm no child anymore, Daddy. I've looked into the eye of Death and it didn't scare me. Losing does. And seeing my friends die._

But she kept silent and smiled. "No, Dad. It's just, I'd rather spend my last summer holidays with you than some books. They can clearly wait for me."

"We'll always be here for you, too, darling."

_No, _she thought,_ you won't. And chances are, I won't be either._

"I love you, Dad."

And he hugged her, not knowing he had just said good-bye to his daughter.

"_Obliviate._"

(And some small part of her was relieved, because, finally, she didn't have to lie anymore, and with her parents gone and safe, she had two lives less to worry about.)

* * *

That final summer, it wasn't Hermione coming home, but her parents, memories restored and still not knowing anything.

She clung to them, too-old eyes filled with tears, murmuring "I love you" and "I'm sorry" over and over again.

She had never been craven, but sitting them down and starting to tell her tale was one of the hardest things she had ever done. But she didn't hesitate, she owed them that.

So she rolled up her sleeve and showed them the word carved into her flesh.

_Mudblood_, it read and it made her smile a little, despite the pain it held. They had lost so much, lives and dreams and their childhood. But they had never faltered, and in the end they had prevailed.

"Let us start at the very beginning…"

* * *

Thanks for reading. A review would really make my day!


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